Sunday Scribblings: Ideas
There is no lightbulb, no mega-watt epiphany.
It is a stick poked into a fire, embers like electric yellow jackets zigzagging through the air, untouchable. It is a gruff caveman, turning a gray rock as he inspects it, but feeling confused, or a pinball machine, bleating from a short circuit. A quarter deposited again and again, refusing to register. A coin return that comes up empty, even after the machine is kicked.
But then . . .
a maeltrom: turbulent, tossing, and troubled. Flat soda; a runaway mom; un poco queso; a handprint on plexiglass; the lanky son of a farmer; a six year old poet, who opens the door to her apartment, inadvertently allowing a wayward mob of cockroaches spill out:
these are the shiny candywrappers that might make me some beautiful wrapping paper, if I take the time to arrange them just right.
And especially now, in a life as intense as a shot of expresso, I look back and am grateful for the long bus rides of my youth, cold windows and cracked green seats--an hour back and forth, a timeless pot in which ideas were made to percolate.
______
For more Sunday Scribblings, click here.
It is a stick poked into a fire, embers like electric yellow jackets zigzagging through the air, untouchable. It is a gruff caveman, turning a gray rock as he inspects it, but feeling confused, or a pinball machine, bleating from a short circuit. A quarter deposited again and again, refusing to register. A coin return that comes up empty, even after the machine is kicked.
But then . . .
a maeltrom: turbulent, tossing, and troubled. Flat soda; a runaway mom; un poco queso; a handprint on plexiglass; the lanky son of a farmer; a six year old poet, who opens the door to her apartment, inadvertently allowing a wayward mob of cockroaches spill out:
these are the shiny candywrappers that might make me some beautiful wrapping paper, if I take the time to arrange them just right.
And especially now, in a life as intense as a shot of expresso, I look back and am grateful for the long bus rides of my youth, cold windows and cracked green seats--an hour back and forth, a timeless pot in which ideas were made to percolate.
______
For more Sunday Scribblings, click here.
posted by Cate at 9:31 PM
20 Comments:
I love this post!
I love your use of words in this. You can always strike up the most vivid details in your writing.
I love it too - oh hallelujah - you're back!!!!!! And how did I miss the last one?? I must have been in a coma or something equally important.
Welcome back. HOOOOOOORAAAAAAY!!!!
hug!
What a delicious treat - I love the way that randomly following links sometimes lead to something really special. Like this!
I'll be back for more. Words to come back and savour again and again.
Excellent post! I especially love the last paragraph.
The escape from childhood. Does any writer not have these ideas to draw upon?
This is great, so full of ideas and so well written!
Wow, I often had an hour-long bus ride in the mornings, and a two-hour commute in the afternoons, but I hated the buses. Of course back then smoking was permitted in buses in Ireland, on the top floor of the double-deckers, the place I loved to sit because of the stolen views they gave of back gardens and upstairs windows. So I either sat downstairs and saw nothing and felt motion sick. Or I sat upstairs and saw everything and had to breathe smoke and feel motion and smoke sick! I'll have to meditate on the ideas I may or may not have percolated during those rides. Maybe there were more than I remember.
This is so visual for me- I can see that caveman turning over that rock and the shiny candy wrappers... really wonderful post, Cathie!
children and cockroaches :)
interesting mix...
Hours lasted longer then, didn't they?:)
Actually those hours have lasted lifetimes, now that I think about it...long hours indeed.
So what are you going to do with all those shineys? (not counting the wayward mobs of crunchies)
Wonderful, Cate. I hope you write something brilliant that I can keep on my shelf, with one of these ideas. Signed, you know. So it will be worth a lot down the road when I need to sell it for food. ;)
:)
As always, a job well done. You are a master of imagery. I love the line "in a life as intense as a shot of expresso, I look back and am grateful for the long bus rides of my youth, cold windows and cracked green seats..."
I look forward to your novel published, lady.
That last paragraph was just the best.
I want to write like you!
Waving at you from New York,
Frances
Supurb! I can just imagine our young, teenage Cate sitting on the cracked bus seat, pondering the possibilities...
a.
"...a life as intense as a shot of espresso" ~ I love that expression! and especially the way you conclude the analogy with your ideas "percolating" as you took your long daily bus ride.
You have some marvlous images and ideas brewing :)
Your writing is so vivid that you make me see, hear, smell, taste, and feel everything as I read. Bravo!
Hey, everyone! Thanks for all of the lovely comments. I'm grateful that you take the time to visit, and I appreciate every word that you write to me. Have a great week. xo
What a gorgeous post, as always! Have I mentioned today how richer the blogsphere is because you have returned to it? :)
xoxo,
m
You have a way with descriptions that is firelike. I was truly riveted reading this and read it through twice. I am so, so glad to have your one of a kind writing back in my life and am wondering how it feels for you to be blogging again after a long hiatus!
Girl you got it. You captured what it is we all so desparately want to say. Your words are simply echoed in my feeling. Thanks for sharing.
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